


Last Thursday in Atlantic City

by shadesofbrixton



Category: Ocean's Eleven Trilogy (Movies)
Genre: Heist, M/M, Post-Canon, Rusty is always eating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22391275
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesofbrixton/pseuds/shadesofbrixton
Summary: A job goes wrong, but it's nothing that Rusty can't handle... with a little help from his friends.
Relationships: Danny Ocean/Rusty Ryan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 103





	Last Thursday in Atlantic City

**Author's Note:**

> Posted on LiveJournal in 2006, moving over to AO3 for posterity.

The ability to acknowledge that a con has been burned does not take years of experience. All it takes is one bad turn, one false step. All it takes is for some guy to come chasing after you threatening to snap your fingers. Then you start to recognize all the signs, right away. So Rusty's issue isn't the fact that he has a hard time knowing when to quit – it's that he refuses to even when he knows he probably should.  
  
Which leads to situations like this one. Rusty glances up at the humming neon light of the hotel vacancy sign and shoulders into the dingy front room. The clerk is behind bullet proof glass, with a slot for the key. The room rates might as well be painted on a piece of plywood next to the window. No one looks up when he walks in.  
  
Rusty thinks he should probably be thankful for that, considering what he's wearing. It's sort of – no, really – embarrassing, in a pretty impressive way, but the clerk doesn't even blink as money changes hands, and he takes the stairs two at a time.  
  
The door locks and the bed is a king size. That's all Rusty cares about. He ignores the sick feeling in his stomach, the gnawing unease that something more than his part has gone wrong, that he's disappointed some greater good, as he strips off and leaves the pink mass of polyester in a corner of the room. His options are to wear it out again to buy new clothes, or to order some and have them delivered. He knows a few tailors on this side of town who owe him favors, and he has his lighter in his pocket.  
  
He pulls his wallet and cell phone out of the pocket and lights the suit on fire in the metal trashcan. It takes some effort, but he manages to shove the window open and he puts the can out on the fire escape to smoke and fester.  
  
Someone cat calls at him from the street.  
  
He doesn't even bother to reply, just turns away and leaves the bathroom door open. Gets the water as hot as he can bear it, and the pipes clank like nothing he's ever heard before as he gets under the water. The water swirls pink at his feet and for a second he has a lightning flash of horror that one of the bullets struck, before his hands go up into his hair, and he rasps a laugh at his own stupidity.  
  
"Losing it, man," he mutters under the spray, and finds a generic and desperate looking bar of soap to scrub through his hair. It does the job, at least, and the suds obscure his tattoos on the way down before the spray sends them spinning.  
  
The main fault of hotels – no matter the quality or the price – is that the towels are too small. Rusty wraps one around his hips and it just barely covers. He has to hold it closed. The other goes over his shoulder, and he wipes down the mirror to sigh and look at himself. He'll need to buy a shaving kit.  
  
He blinks at his reflection.  
  
"Oh my stars," he says. "I'm seeing things."  
  
"Hey," Danny says, without looking up. He's perched on the end of the bed, legs crossed, picking through a carton of lo mein. He glances up at Rusty, gives him that look like Rusty's an idiot for even still being on his feet, and uses the equitable tone of voice to add, "you hungry?"  
  
"Man, you even have to ask?" Rusty's feet make wet-sticky sounds on the tile before they hit the grungy carpeting, and he collapses on the mattress and steals the carton.  
  
Danny makes a noise of disgust, and grimaces down at the prickly coverlet. "Don't give yourself rug burn. You pick the worst dives, you know that."  
  
"Didn't have much of an option, Daniel," Rusty says waspishly, around a mouthful of noodles.  
  
"So I heard," Danny says, sounding distracted as he peers at the carpeting between his shoes. "I think this is vomit. This is why your hotel went under, you know."  
  
"Because I threw up on the carpeting? I think I would've remembered that."  
  
"Funny," Danny reprimands him, but the look on his face lets Rusty know that Danny actually thinks it is.  
  
"Mmf," Rusty agrees, scraping the last of the noodles into his mouth. Danny makes an objecting noise, but knows better by now than to ask how the hell Rusty managed to pack it away so quickly. He lets the carton drop over the side of the bed and sprawls out on his stomach, arms above his head, and turns his face to bury it in the extra towel. "Fuck," he says.  
  
"I'll say," Danny agrees. There's a sound of one shoe, then the other, hitting the floor.  
  
Rusty doesn't move as Danny stretches out next to him, the back of the man's head coming to rest on his shoulder blade. Rusty turns his head the other way, and he can just barely see Danny's knees up in the air, and his hands folded peacefully on his stomach.  
  
"Did you want something?" Rusty asks muzzily.  
  
"Just came for the view," Danny assures him. And reaches over and gives Rusty's one bare ass cheek a smart slap.  
  
"Fucker," Rusty says to the inside of his elbow.  
  
"Well, now that you mention it," Danny says, and heaves himself up onto one elbow, far enough away that Rusty can glare up at him, but near enough that the broad-palmed hand can smooth over the small of his back.  
  
"The money's stashed at the bus depot," Rusty says.  
  
"I know."  
  
Rusty's eyes stay closed as he feels Danny lift away the rest of the towel, leaving his entire back exposed to the night air from the open window. He does his best not to shiver, but springtime in Atlantic City doesn't always bring the desert heat he's used to. Shocking but true. "Danny," he says, warningly.  
  
The palm doesn't stop, spreading up the widening expanse of his back, over the hollow between his shoulder blades, and back down again. Over his ass again. The top of his thigh, slipping down to the inside, and then back up. Between his legs.  
  
"Danny," he says again, and opens his eyes, pushes up on one elbow to twist enough to look at the other man, expression flat. "What do you want?"  
  
"I'm pretty sure I covered that," Danny says, and shifts his hand. The knuckles graze the underside of Rusty's cock, and even pressed against the mattress he can feel the desire stir.  
  
"Really."  
  
"Yep."  
  
Rusty blinks. "You're serious. When did this – "  
  
"A while ago." Danny isn't even looking at him, can't seem to take his eyes off of Rusty's spine.  
  
Rusty scratches at his jaw. "Did it ever occur to you that I might not – "  
  
"Nope."  
  
"Pushy son of a bitch." Rusty pulls one knee up, spreading his thighs, and sighs, settling his cheek back onto his arm. He hides his grin in a fierce bite at his mouth and settles a bit. "We don't have any – "  
  
"I know," Danny assures him, tugging at his necktie until it's loose enough to come off over his head. Then he bends, and kisses the very middle of Rusty's back. And then the space just below that one, and the space just below that one. "We'll make do."  
  
"Mm," Rusty says. "You gonna let me finish a sentence at any point tonight?"  
  
"Not if I can help it," Danny says, and catches skin between his teeth.  
  
"I'm not going to shut up," Rusty warns him.  
  
He can feel Danny smile against his back. "Good."  
  
Danny's good at keeping promises.  
  
Rusty's better at breaking them.


End file.
